


Scrubs

by TheLastGoodGoldfish



Series: you should only wear this [1]
Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: A little bit of Sexy Stuff, F/M, Fluff, Minor amounts of Angst, Post-Movie, Roleplay, highly topical references and deeply insightful social commentary jk, post-MKAT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:50:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9510344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastGoodGoldfish/pseuds/TheLastGoodGoldfish
Summary: Logan's feeling blue, and Veronica has a new profession.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The movie takes place in 2016 and I don't care what anybody says. So this takes place in early 2017, following Logan's deployment at the end of MKAT.

By the end of his first week back at North Island, Logan is feeling drained.

It’s probably just seasonal ennui or something. A post-deployment slump. New job anxiety. The fact that the weather's bad, or that this latest deployment cost him his first real anniversary with Veronica, or that _Hail to the Chief_ plays for that bloated, orange narcissist now...

He _knows_ he’s lucky: the new job doesn’t suck, he’s flying, living with Veronica, home safe from another tour. He’s _lucky_. Luckier than some. No excuse to complain. It’s just...

Whatever it is, Logan needs to shake it.

He returns home that Friday night to find Veronica crouched on the kitchen floor behind the island counter, rummaging through cabinets. They do the _how was your day?_ exchange, called out over upbeat, ten-year-old indie-pop, and Pony collects her due ear-scratching, then retreats to her kibbles.

“I'm making pulled-pork sandwiches,” Veronica tells him. It’s her night for dinner and somehow, even a ten-hour workday can't do her in.

“Thanks,” he calls back, “I’m gonna change.”

In the bedroom, he dons sweats and a t-shirt. As he’s tossing his uniform into the hamper, his eyes fall on a dark red lump at the foot of the bed, beside Veronica’s purse.

Examination reveals an auburn wig: long, loosely braided, with thick bangs, and hairpins sticking out of the scalp. Logan smirks.

“Aw, man,” he whines, returning to the kitchen, “I missed Ginger?”

Veronica pops her head up from behind the cabinets to answer dryly: “Sorry. The wig itched. I know you’re a fan.”

“I am.” He has fond memories of the last time Veronica went _redhead_ for work. “Ginger’s fun.”

“ _Samantha_ ,” she corrects.

"Ooh, is she a _witch?_ " Logan can't see the eye-roll, but he can picture it. He strolls up to counter, "Need help with anything?”

“Nope. Got it.” With a grunt, she rises, heaving a serving dish from the cabinet onto the countertop, and—

_Is she wearing scrubs?_

“Woah,” is Logan’s eloquent response to his girlfriend’s ensemble. She's sporting light blue trousers and the standard v-neck top of professional grade surgical scrubs. All that's missing is the lab coat.

“Not as sexy as Ginger’s last get-up,” Veronica breezes, but Logan begs to differ.

She turns around to prep plates, her back to him, and her ass looks _amazing_. She really committed, too: wearing sneakers, her hair pulled into a tight knot—she looks the part.

_Hospital scrubs really do it for him. Who knew?_

“ _Doctor_ Ginger, huh?” he asks, and Veronica smiles at him over her shoulder.

“Someone from Neptune Memorial is dealing black-market morphine; I needed covert access.”

_Of course._

Logan pushes off the counter, walking up behind her and snaking his arms around her waist. She stops ladling pulled-pork onto sweet rolls to peck him on the lips. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Like the outfit?”

“Very much.” Logan brushes aside fine, stray hairs and kisses her neck. She smells a little like _hospital,_ but right at her pulse-point are tones of the floral perfume she’s been wearing lately, and he likes that.

“It’s not _tailored_ , like on T.V.,” Veronica notes, setting down her ladle. Logan shifts her neckline, exposing shoulder and a white bra-strap, his teeth grazing along the path. “The hospital was freezing,” she continues, “I should’ve layered.” He slides one hand beneath her shirt, palming her belly and making her sigh. “What d’you think, did I miss a career opportunity here?” She leans her head back and reaches up to scratch her nails along his scalp.

“' _Dr. Mars.'_ I like it.”

“What’s another wasted degree, hmm?”

“Wasted?” He nips her ear. “Bullshit.”

She places a kiss at his hairline, _a thank-you_ , and he slips a hand under her elastic waistband, brushing his thumb over her hipbone. Veronica swallows. “Logan.”

“Mhm.”

She sighs again, and for a second, he thinks she might insist on dinner first. Instead, she murmurs, “How about it? Keep things simple?” She pivots to face him, hands sliding down his shoulders, then his biceps, eyes sparkling. Velvety, faux-kittenish: “I’m your doctor, and you’re a very, _very_ sick patient...”

Logan laughs, but she cuts him off, pressing her mouth to his. He lifts, she climbs, and it’s a miracle that he possesses the clarity to maneuver her to the other counter, avoiding any barbecue-sauce-related mishaps.

Her bra’s unsnapped and dangling like a shoulder holster before any of her other clothes come off, because he wants to touch her, wants to hear the little moans she makes when he does. Her tennis-shoes bang against cabinets when she kicks them off.

“You’ve got the cure for what ails me, huh?” he jokes, then curls his hands around her ass and pulls her tight against him. She closes her eyes, rolls her hips.

“How about—” she mumbles between drags from his mouth, “—you're a patient.... who finds creative ways to pay your bills... because you've lost your insurance.”

Logan shifts, plants hungry kisses down the column of her throat. “Topical. Dark, but topical.”

Veronica arches into him, gasps when he sucks on her breast through the tunic: “Or the classic doctor and... out-of-uniform-nurse fantasy? Ooh—I know. Prison medic and falsely accused convict. You can convince me of your _innocence_.”

“That’s _Prison Break_.”

“Mmm.” She laces her fingers through his hair, and loses the thread of banter altogether. “ _Logan_.”

Impressively, they make it as far as the bedroom door.

 

 

Logan dozes in a warm haze, on the threshold of sleep, but resisting. Wrapped in soft sheets, dim light, and naked girlfriend, he's...  _almost_ rested.

He knows he'slucky, truly, but when he mumbles something to that effect— _I’m lucky_ —against Veronica’s damp hair, she shakes her head. Her fingertip traces a pattern on his neck:

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it." She draws herself up, sheets falling around her hips, and leans over to kiss the blooming hickey just above his navel. His stomach growls in response, and Veronica laughs. “C’mon,” she says, tugging his hand, “Time for dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has some of the same rhythms as Washing Machine, because that story is its very distant ancestor. Ginger, unfortunately, did not make the final cut, so I resurrected her here. Then sliced things up, made it stand-alone, and gave Logan some of my January blues.


End file.
